Fuck n' Chuck

Some would call him that,
The ancients had prophesied his descent into Oxnard.
They chose to call him fire jerk
And sung of the vomit dripping goddess's
Whose cum-rippled hair was like the dew of Oxnard mornings,
Nymphs who Fuck n' Chuck had in drunken protest,
As he carved their innards with snake and balls exploding
Filling them with the raging fire of the jerk,
The furnace of the jerk's stick
Born in that rod-happy and cum-drunk pussy,
That only the force of vomit could sooth.

When maidens had his glow
And gazed into his fire-jerky face
Flailing their coarse breasts,
They intuited Oxnard before Atlantis brought the sea to the land,
When Oxnard was desert and crow-tower of the ancient elves,
When Fuck n' Chuck rode on stallion and hoed the sow,
Pussy wet with farmers and swordsman's sons,
When goat and sheep would vomit before sunrise,
And profer to him the chunky acidic mush,
Rought from the furnace of their naval chakras
And Fuck n' Chuck would lick the glowing butter
Of their stomach's folly,
Before the rocking and rowing
Of his dog-like entry:
Whomever he fucked would chuck.

Unbridled

Unbridled is how I describe existence,
For its source rushes out as a torrid
Becoming endless possibilities.

Unbridled means no beginning and no end
With an unceasing march of beginnings and endings,
Existence as a perfect crystal,
A shattered crystal,
Refractions without a crystal --
Beyond all heavens or hells
And the karmas that bind them.

Unbridled means perfect control
A bridle to harness the senses,
Infinite etiquette,
Battles against darkness,
A way of courage,
Unlimited probabilities,
In the ceaseless chaos of forever.

Earthly Thoughts So Distant Now

Earthly thoughts so distant now,
So uttered the hell-bound poltergeist preacher
As he knocked on the holly wood of imperatives,
To let the Spielberg horror movie in the house,
Yelling:
We want the angel!

Instead consider hard work
Sweeping wooden floors by the grip of a broom,
A spindle to all the worlds,
A gavel through the koans of self,
A laughter of plentiful rivers,
The golden dust of moths spiraling upwards
Dancing amidst the ecstatic aloneness
Of infinite love.

The Ascension of President Allende In Chile

Where does the string of thought lead?
Is it only the hopeless chatter of crickets
Above the black and white sphere
Of Yin and Yang?

The helix spins out of the sunset,
It's blade slicing 4-space, dream-space, sex-chase,
The rhyme that dances through the casual chains,
Like President Allende's final message
A silver cloud for the future:
Love your murderers
Whose naked light is your own.

Tales About Him

Since youth they told him about him --
The wise white man from Israel
Who could make the work easier,
And who deplored violence
Against the house.

A few cotton-picken summers later
squinting into a punishing sky,
He blinked,
Attracting another white man,
A teacher of the truth,
Whose whip came down
Shredding the tale.

Happy Defeat

The orange paper
Moves me like a lover.
I would never sip the milk
Or spill the language without pain,
A value of my ego games,
My ego train
To third-world grains.

The New York cement isn't as conscious,
As forest dew,
Leafy flesh of Gaia.
Cancerous mother of capital,
Words can't solve our problems
Silence won't help
Yet happy defeat does entice me.

Boddisattva Attached To You

Tremble slightly to my waves,
Questioned releases that mark the leather of my days,
A final curiosity about you my friend.
Your love imagined as brought me to the side,
To the glade of the shinning path
Whose glass bricks I've trampled cut,
As Bodhisattva attached to you.

Marxist Doubts

Could you write a poem about commodity fetish,
The love of those things,
Those days?

Now in the cool forests of rectangular grass
I sit,
Asking you this:

How can you write a poem about commodity fetish?
When your own poem
Is so unrecognizable,
How can you recognize the world?

Plastic Parade

Cowering through the shadows thicket,
I climbed into a plastic parade,
Struggling against the smooth fields,
Slipping off the roofs of machines.

When I spoke her name
Near the sun-lit gate,
A pompous manikin heard the call,
On a list she saw my number
And geared the game so I would fall.

She uttered my demise
Yet I know she is not to blame;
For it was the holiday season
And I was the winter's ancient shame.

Going to New York City Next Year

Going to New York City next year,
Flying in high California
Drinking jazz,
Pedestrian cotton dreams,
Sun-tan L.A. Bunnies,
But...

Going to New York City next year,
Drinkin' Marxist wine in urban cold,
Massive, culture, ancient America,
Big Apple, Broadway, art, death
And none of the above
Yet still...

Going to New York City next year,
Right-wing, left-wing, Madison Avenue,
Wingless executives all dreaming of bridges
And valentines day chocolate commodity trash,
While the blacks
(Poor only because of lower IQ)
Listen to post-industrial funky-town,
Sundown.
They're always...
Going to New York City next year.

I Saw Leaving In His Eyes

White glare,
Dying faces
Bobbing atop ragged bodies
immersed in 4 A. M Hate
Downtown November
Los Angeles season.

One screaming ecstatic drunk
(My friend notices
A resemblance to Oscar Peterson),
Preaching in circles.
Last rites.

With animal certainty
I shiver to his sounds.
My body listens well
And smells his carcass future.

I saw leaving in his eyes
Amidst the frenzied cement night,
Leaving like a supernova
Of blinding brightness
That flickers desperately against the shadows
Implying immortality.

Do Not Claim Me, Oh Disease Art!

Do Not Claim Me, Oh Disease Art,
Compel me to walk aimlessly
Down foggy faded boardwalks
In reverence of the bums
Who are pure art,
Terminal art.

I would do well to catch you, Oh disease art,
Attracting the bright colored skirts of women,
Pretentiously staining Dostoevsky books with coffee,
Sweating against a piano on an early summer day,
Only to retreat into the wilderness
Like an old Russian monk
wallowing in Jesus art.

Many search for you, oh disease art.
Quantum physics is tedious.
Psychiatrists are expensive.
We must instead support the well-bred artist,
As he walks down shimmering hallways
Mopped immaculate by the old Chicano lady,
Starving artist.

To anyone who will catch you, Oh disease art,
No matter how famous their affliction spreads:
Art itself is the grouchy old painter
And we -- its cracked and wilting brushes
That bleed the colors
Onto a canvas
Never seen.

Why Write?

Why write?
Why render that infinite window
To the mercy of a pen's geometry,
Reduce humanity's song
to an equation we call poetry?

I know the quill embalms images
And shelters them from time.
But why must we save thoughts
Like pack rats on acid?
Yes we have Shakespeare stored,
Along with atom bomb formulas,
let loose by the pen.
Why write?

A Way I Will Not

I will not pretend for you
But will be a cluster of stars
Weaving through the spaces
Of our lives.
So many parts I will be for you,
Dust lit against the background,
Blending outward in the darkness
By and by.

I cannot pretend for you,
Tell you that a rope is a snake,
Crank back a water-wheel that filled you,
Or even smile in the edges of my anger.
Yet -- I will be like a string
Wound and glistening on some fine instrument.
I will twang into the careful bellows of life.
You will hear my resonance as a wide open feelings,
Like a field where sounds are sure in the wind,
I shall stretch until we've touched both ends.

Yet, it is true, I will not pretend,
Enter a stage and them point to your immortality,
Show the audiences the changelessness of you,
Yet not the bleached flowers on your dress.
Instead -- I will be one of the flower's worn threads
And curl like a patient river through the heat
The muddy savanna of mundanity and circumstance.
I will present my colors as a mosaic in your days
And will not break to the strokes and turns
Of your metals which led me once through the waves.

California For Iraq

As your bare feet twist
In the sensuous date fields
And your hips sway to the cracked desert floor,
I will drink with you.

My smelly fat brothers
Have defiled your ancestors,
Pumping your oiled land
With steel cocks of industry.

I am obese with guilt
My stomach is full and soft,
Yours, empty and hard.
My house is warmed by the bones
That broke from your grandfathers.
My blankets are wove from fibers
Once the sleek muscles of your youth.

Dipped into my nation's pie
Is the cherry
Red from your people's blood.
My father's guns
Have impaled me.
I am yours now.
I am the poorest.

The Olympic Games

Amidst the Olympic Games,
Beneath the diffused and anxious voices of the air
And the metallic screeches of the toxic city,
We stand to salute the old and dangerous energy,
The fervor of nations,
Divisions, power,
Now in new garbs,
With ancient blood
Do the youth lean toward the battlefield,
The insectual patriotism of billion-consciousness,
Fused minds,
Now cascading rivers
Of bruising astral death.

Our age is old,
It is weary of death by battle,
By the chant of the carnivorous mammal,
Now gripping his own release,
Now fondling the new arrows of thermo-nuclear resolution,
The thousand suns that man may grace the granite with,
The thousand billowing clouds,
That soon my veil the thousand movies, the athletes, the baseball math,
Whose equations we have retreated into,
Like a reluctant ostrich,
Hiding eggs at a poetry reading,
Of matter-centric sexual buoyancy,
The hippy hypocracy label,
The Clark Gable parties
Of wine and stale fruit,
The Roman grape-stuffing faggots
Who revere poets and pianists above the real,
The workers who bus their parties
Who farm their fat faces
For the green coupons of entropy
Hidden in hateful smiles,
The wanton suffering of the rich,
Sublimated and flung,
As the mud of Hollywood,
Into a zeitgeist of flag psychosis
Commodity fetish movies.

Now only the kissing and joy of the ridiculous can solace us.
We have build toys too stubborn to leave.
The earth is littered with our excrement.
Mother Kali is calling us,
To cleanse the rivers and the cities
The wanton droppings of boredom.
Man is lazy
Even beyond conceiving change.
He can only watch the games from the stands,
The athletes running with plastic,
Gripping things,
Racing toward imaginary goals,
Leaping for gold around wooed crowds
Clobbering, frenzied,
Boxing for the religion of victory
As teams, with flags, for nations,
Until the game is over,
And the flame quenched --
In our glorious festival of extinction.

Beyond Conceiving of Place That Is Beyond

Awareness is ambiguous,
If not genuine,
A clear pond changing
In silky union
Of light and dark
Unattached mindfulness
And razor-sharp discipline,
Punching through the senses
Into finer vibrations.

Quiteness is both full and empty.
It excludes the ego babble,
Neuron orgies.
Senators of the skull,
Wrestling in balls of confusion
Inside the arena
That is thought.

Wholeness is both nothing and something.
Nothing is without it
And something must become it --
Something
Small and transitory
Must rise out of the tent,
The rupa-dharma's of the flesh
And then precede
To devour a universe
That isn't.

Musings of a Dharma Bum

Musings of a Buddha supra-consciousness,
Movements in and out
Of the relative
Rupa-dharmic perspective,
Out of the Jiva, Ajiva,
Karmic sticky stuff,
Got enough
For tantric bliss,
A kiss to Kansas nirvana,
Scarecrow and the raven,
Existential horror
Time lights me by
Gotta fly ego
Gotta fly!

The Eightfold Path of Buddhism

And as the eight ways arise in Buddha-time,
A path is constructed out of dharmic illusion,
Rupa-centric babble that isn't.

Right Views:
To view this poem and nothing else
Or to view everything.
Permanence is temporary.
Beauty and happiness,
Dreams lost
like the solid dreams of self.

Right Intention:
To see the existential nothing,
To love everything dearly
So clearly,
To embrace paradox without
Anthrocentric hate.

Right Speech:
To end this poem,
Cessation of philosophy,
Vikalpa, construction,
Publicity for the ego,
Of existence and science,
No more Shakespeare
No more apple pie.

Right Action:
Lights! Cameras! Action!
Eating after noontime is bullshit!
The life must be stone consciousness,
No high beds,
No kick-ass head,
Yes a monk is all of this,
Before anything is said.

Right Livelihood:
No America
No profit
No corporations
No gold or silver
No interest rate
No Federal Reserve Board
No Clinton or Bush
No Property
No Money
No Marxism
No Ism.

Right Effort:
As blindness is to sight,
As deafness is to sound,
As numbness is to touch,
As odorless is to smell,
As dumbness is to speech,
Effort is beyond opposites
Is all of this,
No winning or losing,
No excuses.

Right Mindfulness:
Right everything of the bodyness,
The knowing bliss,
When a breath is like a heartbeat,
Is like a smile,
Is like a thought,
Is like,
Never noticed.

Right Concentration:
Samyag Drishti,
LSD or Zen,
A child in the woods,
Or a wise man by the shore,
A whore at copulation,
Realizing the eternity of the moment,
Beyond the pseudo-experiences of thought,
Of art,
Of religion,
When the moment of total bliss is achieved,
And awareness is God,
Is nothingness and everything,
Then, my friend,
Like a scarf eroding a mountain,
You must fall to the first truth again and again,
And even again,
Still again stream-winner
Now once-returner, again
And some timeless time,
Again, a Buddha.

I Was the Emporer of Pupekea

I was the emperor of Pupekea
Twice, in its gentle bosom,
The green lands west, Hawai'i,
Driving into the sun
Set above
Sailed down and sauntered to a marble ocean blue,
Blue and blue sky,
Hawai'i so blue as she is.
I was emperor of the blue realm.

Of Pupekea I saw with imperial eyes,
Spying the end of the West and the day,
The emperor robed in bright and orange,
A gift of the happy sun untied in the western sky,
Afternoon boon,
On my throne,
Knowing well
The East was shrouded in its dark darkness,
Had swallowed the Buddha,
I learned with crying imperial eyes.
It was a bright hot morning,
My bamboo bong and telephone
Told me of his demise.

I practiced the arts as emperor of Pupekea.
Windy with spirits and divine indifference,
My magic was poor,
But I am not a high priest,
Just high enough to write imperial poetry
And smile in Pupekea
While I wave goodbye,
For I was emperor in a grand time.

Four Corners of the Earth

I.
She is twenty
As the wire handle digs
Into her sandpaper hands,
Walking stingy barefoot miles,
To acquire muddy water
For six dirt-smile children.

He is twenty
And target after curfew,
Head covered beside
Bullet-ridden body of a friend.
When the searchlight passes
He will sprint to the wall,
Cowering in warm manure until dawn.

II.
She is twenty
And with great effort,
Swats flies from her puffed eyelids,
Cradling a bloated infant,
Grasping a tin plate
In ecstatic anticipation of sticky porridge.

He is twenty,
Grasping the dusty jeep,
Machine gun strapped to back,
Desert sands blind the weathered face
Headed for a village of stick and straw,
Ripe with cattle and women.

III.
She is twenty
And sports agile wrist in chorus
With unforgiving metallic lathe,
Peddled and fed rubber,
A Harvest of tennis shoes
Until she loses her other hand.

He is twenty,
With bails of rice
Draped over his hard brown back.
When he staggers and cramps
The reminder is always a whip.
He shouldn't have criticized the state.

IV.
She is twenty
Sprawled on milky silk bed,
Plastic telephone to ear,
Wanting dresses, perfume and booze.
She forgot to take the pill
And Daddy has taken away the credit card.

He is twenty
Inside of stained white interior
Of speeding blood-red Porsche
Frat party with Coors and stopwatch
He's dizzy, no oxygen, a blur.
He just hit someone.

Apartheid

The constructive engagement of rubber bullets
As exacting as the sand against bare feet,
The days in sun-stagnant sweat towns
Where women glide buckets of muddy water
Atop proud shoulders,
The future perched and purchased,
Sticky mud converted into value calculus
Inside the plush white air-conditioned rooms
Of Wall Street-Footsie fantasy profit margins
And white-boy stock market Ferrari cars,
The purring of entropic suicide,
Macho abstraction,
Imported into the nightmare hades of Apartheid,
Enclosing the children playing in industrial rust,
Alongside men stuffed in buses to hunt value expansion
For the modest entombment in Krugerrand death mines,
Times were better long ago,
When the seed and the grasses
Swayed in song
To the dry-baked summer ground,
When the lazy irrelevancy of being was enjoyed,
The dances, sunsets and shamanistic songs,
Inside the buzzing of insect-night skies,
Under the clouds,
Blooming in the afternoon wind,
The airy dharmas sounding out hellish IBM futures
Where electronic prison camp genocide
Fenced in the beauty,
Herded the people into slavery
Of World Bank IMF credit flow,
A Nile reddened
By the dead Moses's of Sharpsville,
Voices that will sing Africa into freedom.

Doomed For the Change

Armpits smell in insurance elevators.
I sit amidst crumbs and compose.
Fear is the milkshake of the night,
Emulating Santa Barbara geneticists and mathematical economists,
Beautiful plant smoke.

I am an image on the screen
Of that coca-cola stained video game
That pushes me toward extinction
Without adolescent quarters
Or ephemeral women.

I saw a film on Nicaragua.
The people are awakening,
Rubbing the profit sleep from their eyes,
While I slumber in the mowed grass
Of California deserts
Doomed for the change,
A draining suburban happiness
That will not end.

Suffering Polishes Joy

Apparently there is much to learn,
Like the whittling of a stubborn but fine wood.
Suffering polishes joy.

Somewhere there is a foundation,
Not that one must find it.
Go onward jerking thoughts
Into knowledge.
Know everyone.
Feel there smiles.
Share in perceptions,
Teachings,
Of our species and others.
One should breath deep,
Recalling the abilities,
The pointless moods of childhood,
The raw taste of life.

We must be as bold as a candle flame,
Students of the moment,
Laughs of the one.

Going Backwards

The day it mellowed out
About the houses cobweb attic
And the artsy market floor,
The bore was
Terrifying.

The day it telephoned out
And you with him
That electronic Avon-lady day,
I would have to say
Wounds with blame.

But hey, it's not time
Crying over spilled milk,
A silk that rapes times curves,
The slur was only clockwork
Hopefully not soul-like
The fright of light.

Night! Tickle the objects.
I protest this surface.
I know of infinite alleyways,
All possibilities
For the dead lovers
And living leavers
Heave me here.

But there was fine,
Watermelon Midwestern rinds
And Oklahoma dreams
Of Dorthyesque birch trees
And seeds of honey
Stinging bees.

Please,
Find me a clock,
With many springs,
That winds every way.

Off Upon the Naval

Off upon the naval,
Graceful upon the apron,
Roll off the roots
Of the apple tree
Kissing,
Off the lad's wet she.

Flow off the naval
Power flowers on, off,
Stop toward the girl's.
Pop off the weighted seed,
Naval through the bough

Sex on the naval
Off and down,
Up and on,
Cross path the mammal,
Off the globe's trough,
Soft walk careful,
Smooth,
Turn on the offs of thought,
Silent now, candle soft
Light off the clouds
Moth on the flame
Mind on the No
Off the laden wheel --
On the nothings
Perfect scream.

Autonomous Not

And turning into the credit card mecca,
The final place,
Shiny transitory illusion
Firmly enshrined
Beyond psychoid.

And seeing the patterns
Of particle waves,
Musical choirs,
Harmonizing in the glade,
Of 3D projection.

And dropping Christ-consciousness
Inside the sticky New York nights
That echo Roman tyranny,
Pagan archetypes,
Of the mathematical west.

And finalizing the beginning, my life,
Your life,
The timeless bubble births
That burst and fade
Like helix's rising into Babylon,
Then crumbling into starless pleroma.

And doing all of this without any trace
Of a doer.

Daytime T.V.

Relish the irregular supper-man,
Superman, stupor-man.
Involve yourself in mid-20th century
Cigar and Bogart lighting
Watch the black
And white
On the afternoon airwaves.

Oscillate around
Dusty studio sets of L.A.-dom.
Finger the rivets
Of the bras
That knew only Joe,
Senator McCarthy,
Father knows bestologist
Of the twilight zone.

Offer highway patrols,
Columbia drug analogies
Which point to a zeitgeist
Of Reagan movies
And racist fishbowl
Community bores.
Hide from this day.

A Cliche'

A quart of alcohol inhibits oxygen,
Window pane of the brain,
The sane,
Sages of teapot nostalgia.
I live in a fish-bowl,
Rich parents,
White,
That equation hums to me with such congenital ease
While the rest must taste smog
And sport
Calloused Hands.
I am a rotting college kid Marxist.
Fuck, a clown,
A court jester of the university
Playground.

Modern poetry is shit.
Rich whites obscure reality
Glorify red wheelbarrows,
As if they meant something,
Something as important as their bloated stomachs
On corporate ledgers
And the sleek war technologies
That poets eat from.

Only optimistic fantasy keeps me going,
Not going to the insurance firm,
A place I might go.
Yet change might be the order
Of the day;
For I feel the restless molecules
And their laughings,
Night spirits that personify:
THE INTENSE GUILT
Of being American
And still
Wanting more.

The Girl and the Guy

True to the lights,
Opaque and final in the dull
Placid chairs of rooms,
The girl and the guy sit waiting.

After the last paycheck
When all the rents have left,
This couple will fly into milky nights,
Embracing beyond their errors.

We all sit by the computer
Pressed to the nausea of money,
Clinging to the bosom of capital
Of property, fear and performance.

The chattering couple will continue,
Man and woman herded into the company,
Two little things oscillating in space
Learning about this strange civilization --
Only to leave again and report back
To the one.

Afternoon

We are afternoon,
Set in line on this train
And we spy Whitman's decay,
The coast where it started
Where Jefferson wrote,
As he once rode winged stallions
And touched the dharma,
The feathered imprint of freedom,
Flustering by Maryland, Virginia
Her forests,
Now do I peer into
The sick trees
Of junk-rusted winter
Cold as the mind darkens.
The empire is falling.

Whitman was late morning,
As he flew over her forests
And saw the power of the land rise,
Rise for the white man
And the bloody war over the slaves
He came
Late morning
Before the noon Zenith of Hiroshima,
Of empire,
Japan's surrender.
America has done things
As power set circulating
Which Rome could only dream of.

I am late afternoon.
The sun is low,
Bowing down to the sunset of the future.
The glowing opening shall come,
The circle from Christ's murder complete.
All Empires from Rome's womb shall fall,
And I am afternoon
As Whitman was morning.
I shall sing of this land's decay.
I shall see lumbered forests illumined,
Hear Elf-song in the garbage dumps
And ride this train to New York
Spanning infinity,
Embracing verse from the other spheres,
For I know the math of the universe.
Whitman only saw the heart.
The morning hard-on of the body electric;
But I see afternoon
And all the moons are spinning
Retrograde --
Back to the fall,
The brick buildings of our cities
Red with blood
Like dying stars
Crumbling
After America,
All commodities pummeled,
Confusion.
The biosphere will
Revenge itself
Over America
After this afternoon.

Manhattan to New Canaan

Motion again, Manhattan to New Canaan!
By the fasting Buddha's so swiftly,
This train moves northbound.
Goodbye to Rome on the Hudson
We float on electronic rivers,
Like uprooted trees
Spinning toward a divine lightening.
Time ushers us on,
A commodity of tragedy.
Man is so close
As to only dream the spaces between.

Underground I write
In the cobwebs of Grand Central Station.
Pointed northwards toward the cooling forests,
September and harvest,
Do these rails tend so painfully stretched,
So buried in this city of cities of cities.
Manhattan is all the cities of earth,
Set aside each other
Floating on the motherfucker of invention.

We crawl slowly above the sputtering rails.
"Faster," I say.
I wish to see the stars open the pathways,
Tunneling to worlds of gods and guardians,
Not these dreary sculptured bricks of low-income housing
The 99th street stables for the black war workers,
Who built the machines that pounded Dresden,
Only to be discarded and caged once more
In the demonic kennels of this Empire.

Economics! Lineages! Chains reaching out,
Reflexes unconsciously compelling,
All directions,
Galaxies of DNA,
Karmas blossoming exactingly.
We are so intricate, like Lazarus,
Who Christ restructured in the desert of a crowd
"Miller Time" for the Buddhas,
Who dance their ecstatic feet upon bloody Tibet,
China's doom --
All present as I cross the Harlem river,
The Bronx,
"Ain't that tough enough?"
Krishna in a 72 Chevy,
No rust for his calender,
His times are both near and far,
According to whim.

The old silver-haired man to my right falls asleep
Resting on my shoulder.
The power leaves but on I write,
As I prop up this great white fuck of a man,
Fuck of my ancestors, of Stamford, Connecticut
Where a Buddha grew to love green fields and girls.
My aura flows into this sleeping testament of life,
A trick of the spirit.
I concede to him my arm and my power,
For into other worlds do I lean wearily,
Expecting nothing less.

I ruffle the pages of this poem,
The old sleeper awakens,
For a moment,
Embarrassed,
Erect against the boxcar air,
Yet again, like a soggy reed,
He lands unknowingly on my shoulder.

Where are we on this evening train?
Have the angels shut the stars closed?
All I see is a nothingness against the glass.
Man's reflections pale against his works,
His great white history and conquest,
Results now asleep against my shoulder
On a train
Awaiting New Canaan.

The City Is the Closing Chapter, Though the Book Will Never End

The city is the closing chapter,
Though the book will never end.
The city is man's new body
Her workers,
Man is cell.

City is the fluid of action
The lid of self-denial.
She is most graceful in the night
When the mother sun has left the room,
And only electrons teach the Highways
The cars,
And hide the sky's stars
To the cool illusions of our work.

Jagged tombs for our wars,
Cities never learn.
Only ruins acknowledge time.

When Satori Appears As a Woman

When Satori appears as a woman,
The dark hue of grass will always sting the skin
Against the plethora of lamp-light Augusts,
As dreams pour their colored mulch,
Like broken cloaks revealing rusted springs,
You must dodge the traffic hate and stand.

Time is state propaganda,
For only the sun has twisted our parting,
Has moved with cold knowledge of the warmth.
We long for simmering mammal love,
While trees grow horny
For sailors and nurses thighs.

Satori and sex are species-less and species-like.
Orgasm is blue-ribboned DNA mothering,
Cookied reward for crashing the billion-year party,
Our satori sex can be mundane or clear-eyed --
When satori appears as a women.

Slim Pickens

For a pint golden of whiskey
Or maybe religious sickness of cigarettes,
Old man Pickens held services
And they came:
Mildewed leather bikers,
Crazed babbling trash,
White, Black or brown,
Ripe-young or rotting old --
Slim would kneel.

At Fatman's trailer, playpen Oxnard,
Slim, stumbling like an old ragged dog,
Bumped into smelly death
Gun-crazed and bored racist,
Pants now soaked with whiskey,
Thanks to sloppy slim.

Our bored minister of hate,
Nigger-hatting nuclear Nazi
Had a smile of an idea.
Revenge!
Slim won't spill again.

That smile made lonely Slim a friend by evenings end.
"Forget the whiskey you spilled Slim."
"Let's go a shootin' up by Rose Valley."
(I won't forget the rope).

He tied with rope-burns that scared pissless old animal,
Hands bound, sensing death, shaking, pleading and doomed
Full of dirty oil rags and tools was that old Chevy trunk,
There Slim lay in the dark,
Feeling the bumpy road to home,
Destined for a hole below the backyard grass.

A cylindrical fine-made model "A" lay below shinning.
"Why this part of Oxnard has no plumbing.
So we buy these useful things.
They only need to be emptied every other year.
You'll be unrecognizable by then."
(Smile)

After three days of nightmare screaming, unheard,
Lying in dark shit and natural warm stinging water,
Slim ascended in his sleep
His body returned to the earth
Now rotting, not missed
In a cesspool.

Citizen Under Power

I live in the shinning acidic belly
Of empire.
Cancerous, I am a Marxist,
Yet still of the body,
And for the body:
America.

My dwellings spring from muddled thoughts,
Monstrous steel wombs,
Woven in the centuries of karma,
Whose rough silk smothered,
Peyote Buddhas --
Indian slaves for the Spanish-Catholic mines,
Christ consciousness for metal.
Movements of the multi-tongued empire
Lapping up the peasant entropy
That oscillates in the dialectic sweat and blood,
Dreaming of:
SANDINISTA.

Yes, we are cells of the northern eagle beast,
Stench of the ego winds
That have filled the bourgeois colleges
With suffering -- dukkha
Doom of the Asuras,
Descending from the power of the air
Into synaptic skull temples
American brain -- Trust
Us!
Exxon.

And the poets still talk about wheelbarrows
And eat Chiquita bananas,
United Fruit Company,
Guatemala,
Indian Auschwitz.
Images develop continuity,
Beyond the Newtonian lie.
Motion doesn't exist.
George Bush doesn't exist.
We do not exist,
In form,
Only events --
Thoughts of ancient ones
Or maybe ancient poems.

Who Doesn't Love Me

The lovers in Iraq have cried,
And the lovers of Bush's oil wars have died in sighs,
Looking west to their beloved homes,
The bosom of life and light,
Now Mangled burnt carbon of uranium babies,
Who confront my suffering
And indeed, I am small --
Only crying for a woman
Who doesn't love me at all.

The Key

I have reached the Zenith without you my love,
Summer solstice.
I can feel the sun washing away our times,
I feel the waning toward another cold fall,
For the both of us.

It was April, my dear, when we last spoke.
Our love now destroyed by this dark earth,
By forces I must face alone.
Your love for me has faded to a dream,
And for you my love is not real anymore.

They killed us with our love, my dear
A black shroud for a fee,
Yet all of that wouldn't matter
If love were not the essence
And you were not the key.

An Age Beyond Love

An age beyond love,
When she becomes a memory.
A drop of dew
falling into a cold eternal pond.

The Wastelands

I am in the Wastelands without your love dear,
In a future unknown
Awaiting a time when I can come to you,
Awaiting the tilt of the earth,
As we set together
Down over the ocean.

What Forces Approve Our Love (My Dear)

What forces approve our love, my dear?
What Caused our meeting
forging us from the beyond
Hundreds of levels deep,
hurling our vibrations to collide?

What forces approve our love, my dear?
Those that oppose us are legion.
But what forces soar above?
I see them now, my dearest,
Indifferent, in shinning armor
Guarding the dimensions of this earth
As they are indifferent now
To love’s death,
To its outright murder.

What forces approve our love, my dear?
Do they watch as we walk away, backs turned,
Fading into the stone cold rain of time,
The hard rain that washes away our lives
Our dreams,
tracing us apart forever.

The Deluge and the Seed

Haunting movements in the soils
The goals of gulls and man
Days, still as furniture
Soaked in sentiment's habit
Habitual futility behind dreams
These leaves, among others
Circle me
Trunk of a tree.

I see the gouging paradox
Eyes wet in the celebration
Musky storm-soaked thickets
A muddy flow from the forests
The nipple and the moon -- before
Cement chilled the puzzled toes
That pressed into the sharpened stone.

I weep in knotted stomach munch
As gargoyles push popcorn postcards
For the beauty pageants of polyester lawyers.
I the wheelbarrow roll awkward
Rusting in the sea-wet stench of midnight
And the beer-soaked breeze of company
Fasting -- amidst the herds' yellowed grass.

Can we obtain rather than describe?
Will we change, not chide, then hide?
I ache from the stairs of slippery boulders
And lap up the river's poison
Flailing my salmon-crystal tail
upstream, blind to the shore
The deluge and the seed.

Corporate Dungeon

As the smelly 1950's floor smothered my pace,
I could see the sun-belt illusion of L.A.
Arizona would have been more apropos
In the belly of the corporate dungeon.

The 8 AM elevator scene is final
It needs no analogy of materialism
Or any Jungian wise-man symbol,
For the corporate elevator is just that,
A platonic thought,
An irrational hypotenuse.

If revolution was an option for poetic cowards,
I would block these freeways,
The blood of the huge glass castles
That thrust into the California sky,
Earning symbols for the coupon clippers,
Pointed results on the degree of exploitation,
Like the brainwashing of Television
That waits for no commercial.

There should be a communist in every skyscraper,
To witness the thousands trod to work,
Buying cigarettes in the lobby.
We need that opposite.
It would refreshen,
Like the loosening of a tie
Around, Around,
My mushroom neck.

A Typewriter

An Ancient typewriter of infinite power metal,
This old desert sage roams the confines of social symbol,
Manipulatory axioms of being,
Captain crunch,
sugar chemical love machine,
The commodity of mother suburb
lamp-post consciousness,
The father of now-ness time,
Spewing forth words in the shitface of illusion.

That is Will

Now in the silent rug
The penny rests as science,
A saucer of power.
I lift the charged disk
And hurl it eons.
That is will.

Yet Another Ben Laden Message

Buddhism and boyfriends,
Bodacious Ben Laden,
Laying out his cockring fantasies
Of Allah in the shopping mall.

Ram You In the Plains

Could we fuck in Kansas without knowing why we we love me?
Could my cock piston to your mouth's hot refrain,
Or is love just a goat grazing in my panties purple rain?
Need me, my angel..and let me ram you in the plains.

Blue and Sun and Marijuana

Blue and sun and marijuana,
Drifting clouds against Pele'

Blue and sun and marijuana,

Days set high against her sky.

Blue and sun and marijuana

Windy times in ancient realms.

Blue and sun and marijuana

Green plateaus above the sea.

Blue and sun and marijuana

Patiently,  I await for thee.

Matter's Time

And not to think this is a dark age,
And not to know the river's silly exactings,
And not to be ponderous of the self,
Floating, floating, floating,
This time is:
Apocalyptic
(Like most others)
Fears of the ceaseless organism
Changing the bells of value,
Strands of DNA slithering in anticipation,
The mirror-like pools of frog-time,
Lilly sighs into the afternoons, swimming,
Wanting to fly.

Ironic that we answer questions
Yet remain idiots in their askings.
Oh so splendid, the structure of conversation,
The muddy movements in isolation,
Canyons of ego-centric pack-dogs,
Smiling in the green violence of money
Those old and sneaky illusions.
Not that love isn't,
But we've been tricked,
That glamor is objective,
The rare TV music of plush-rugged dungeons,
Fooling even the Buddha,
Without fooling him.

Our simple past,
Deep in the soup of billinuim,
Pasteurized bliss rains washing the air into power,
The ancient earth seas of giant-mooned summers;
Our soft gliding flesh is of nurtured dirt,
Molded in the wisdom of dead galaxies,
Flung into the frozen vacuum of forever,
Into this vast networking of dreams,
Biological beards bursting as forests,
From the moist belly of earth and then:
Us, roaring like a train through matter's time.

Why Rodney?

Rodney McBelly,
Sleepy blubber moth,
Awakes from his cradle trailer
To drink of anxieties' piss.

Was it the hand jobs
That he acquired
From a crazed 60-year old homosexual?
Slim Pickens is Mack's man!

Was it the psychotic toothless blonde
Who would ride him every noon
And tongue his meat at dusk
But she ran away with Blacky.

Remember the day Perry up and left him?
Preaching the gospel to hospital audiences,
Holding intimate dinner parties with Jesus,
Perry was a healthy kid.

Could it be those 15-year old girls,
Little fuck rabbits dancing on his fat belly,
Gifts of glowing quarters for Packman.
"Good girl!"

No, we don't know,
Why Rodney
Ever since you escaped
Camirillo mental hospital
In brilliant sow-dom.

You can go back to sleep now,
Rodney.

Sir Throasher

Die man in the kinky hay of grotesque,
Empty copulation.
See the movie
With the Gody Murder marine:
Liquor license,
See, know Jo Blo,
Dionysian cat food.

Apparently the train of the thought is skewed --
Towards Topeka.
Eleven farmers by the road
With tight naughty virgin:
Goats.

Timidly I space-out to drunken catholic professors.
Teach neoclassical:
Economics
The Reagan Pall,
Nancy
ON
MY
FACE
DANCE.

Just say, "Fucking No."
Great Americans drop acid and finish bicycle religions
And that park in San Fran
That ferlinghetti came in,
Come in:
Read Anti-Communist Korean want ads!
Examples?
Yes and sloppy:
Better dead than Red.

Marx is of the bodacious persuasion.
I know international pidgins love grain
And pounce and frolic in the play of change
And revolution!

Revulsion, as this poem goes,
As hope is defined
Accounts define,
Know the priests:
Wheat.

"Sir, the gas-station Christians are ALPHA."
Loaning money to desert acid children,
To young for the war, the whore,
The dropping of Nixon quotes
That are the toilet paper of Harvard.
Go to the streets and see:
LA Greyhound Bus-Terminal Four-AM Hell.
People die without credit
In this part of North America,
Native America:
(Not ours)

Mother Earthling

Now the time will tell.
Now the knower will kneel.
Fire rounds her landscape ship,
Measuring the timber's bell.

Now her rolling grace has fallen
As quietly as the now itself,
To windy, sandy, oiled days,
And muddy miner nights,
Cutting and plucking as rats do eat,
Feeding our corporate sight.

She rejoices in voices to be thrown,
With simple callings, pure,
Cloaked in her soft precision,
Sounds for the cities' ear,
Of easy days and humid rains,
Comfort from her aging nipple years.

Sit with her under Buddha pine
Or willow in your hair.
Know your childish ice-cream grin
Was Eden's pain to bear.

Step up and see the Sun's desire,
The wire to the other worlds,
Now in silent rape for all to have!
As muddy rivers roar,
Racing to the green littered shores,
By melting mountains,
Sweaty from our ape-metal games,
And Chevrolet strains of DNA asshole fame.

Warlock math will never work,
Our science fruits will rot.
Her beautiful rage will burst in red,
In the time when we shall be taught.
For she is --
And we are her,
And that truth shall stay and stay and stay,
(Regardless of our foolish fray)
Her formless windy smiles will always stand,
As her bosom turns the endless day.

Sodomy and Gomorrah

"Who in the hell ate shit while I fucked sheep?"
The question rings in the decadent stables of Sodom,
Where fat bitch-slapped sluts rode pig and cock
Through dark fiery streets,
Whereby strode an angel
Who released a jewel from his eye,
To quell the cream,
The thick cum fountains --
In butt, in cunt, in mouth
Atop mountains of sweat-flesh greased orgasm pigs.

Those fuck wads in Sodom and Gomorrah ate Hades death shit
And their souls without bodies must have freaked!

Narcissus

When love is sin
And sin is love
Oh brawling sin
And sinful love!

Narcissus,
I'm going into my planet,
With mommy.

Anxious of the Herd

Dark between the muddy gate
I hear the candyman call,
To a sun-harvest black-sheet parade.
But near the ancient lamps,
Outcrops neither future,
Nor past.

Take me in your arms parade.
Let me pass those festive gray asphalt gates
And behold the neon entrance of your number's world,
Your ink-stained land of beauty, carnage and ass.
But who am I to Jester?
I once sat throwing peanuts at the birds to.

Sears Catalogue

Swimming colors through green
Guillotined triangles
With red sporting
Turquoise.

Missiles toward rooftops
Omaha roofs of tinted
Orange.
Pink basements and blue,
Very blue bedrooms.

Touching telephone booths
With muddy kumquat glass
And Tupperware spoofs
Also decked in green,
Beautiful bulging wallets.

In the Kansas Room

In the Kansas Room,
The nightingales sing on dusty organs.
Death takes the patrons at the tables.
As they drink the wine of the Kansas Room.

In the Kansas Room
She glides with blonde locks up the staircase.
It's for you to wrestle the night.
She will be waiting above the Kansas Room.

In the Kansas Room
The fat salesmen will gamble green polyester.
The dice are round not square.
You have stepped off the edge.
Your snake eyes will be drained
And your heart will become the enemies lamp,
Until you leave the Kansas Room

State Dreams

Like sand-worn pillars of ruin
Whose groping hands have felt the edge,
I sing only of gravity's darkness
Which hardens particle into myth
And forges us from the furnace of empires.

The more I learn of history
Do I read my own diary.
For I have purged innocence
With a bronze purpose like Babylon
Only to cry alone, scattered
Like ravaged mother Rome.

Waterloo slipped from Napoleon's will,
So have lovers eluded my dreams
Causing me to rise in wanton excess
Like Uncle Sam at whorehouse
Rolling in the chocolate of his riches.

We are all like rusted nations
Embracing emotions that peddle dogma,
In poisoned honey vats
That artists drink like wine
And statesmen spill
Against their sticky bibs
In the nursery of legend.

As our lives flutter in a riverbed
And flow in an algebra of pattern,
So are nations suspended,
Snug in a dew-wet web
That glistens in the morning sun
Of a billion smoldering dreams.

Atlantean Wizard

Look up into the sky
And not to see a wizard.
Look up at the sun
And imagine an exacting turn,
The sun a thought,
A Window left open
And through once the wizard came.

Take the time to walk forever,
Up a staircase that winds through vast rooms,
Rooms full of oceans,
Furnished with islands,
Rugs of green land,
Atlantis,
Walk as the wizard's boot forever.

Say the speak with hands folded to the millimeter,
Say the speak of a thousand worlds.
Stay the week,
One world, one king,
One wizard,
Hold the line
While becoming lines,
Mirrors,
Power,
War.

Kill the death that brought the gods of Atlantis downward in motion,
Incur their fierce envy,
Stop the killing souls and sink the island,
Be a wizard and look up into the sky,
Understand the Wizard's eye.
Fill the time that is already gone.
Meet the people already done.
Hold the power of the temples.
Let the land return to the sea.
Let the geneticists and physicists,
Incarnate again in 1993.
Stop this illusion and stay by the window of the sun,
The wizard has won.
The wizard just one,
Looked up into the sky and saw
Atlantis,
As only a game to be played.